


High, Hot and Heavy

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Enemas, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Harper, Owen.  Diagnosis.  'Full.  Of.  Shit,'" Ianto intones, slowly, finishing with a punctuated stab and looking up at Owen over his pilfered reading glasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High, Hot and Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline:** post-S1, pre-S2  
>  **Author's Notes:** lawsontl planted the seed, but this is for ALL THE TWITTER PERVS. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. TWERVS. Thanks to curriejean for the beta, and for calling the file ENEMANDER. Thank you to cruentum for inspiring me to dust this off from my abandoned folder and finish it today, and for scribbling "mmmm ngah hot" all over the beta copy. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YANTOE JONEZ.
> 
>  **Before you decide not to read because it's got an enema** , I want to remind you about the 'not my kink' rule and how I try to write as many things that aren't my kink as possible. This is totally one of them, and I...well, I just hate for people to pass on things before they try them. Anyway.

Owen can feel the table under him acutely, something cool that warms to his touch. Everything warms to his touch mostly, well, everything that he wants to warm. It's the human condition, really.

There is no sex. Owen doesn't want to fuck Ianto, or even have the man's dick remotely near his arse or mouth. Just the thought of it should make him soft.

It's the hands, really, the long fingers that are right now slapping a clipboard against one naked thigh, naked and a lot hairier than Owen would have thought. Not that he thinks about this. Jack is so smooth, he's seen the man everywhere--he's his doctor.

Maybe Jack likes the contrast. He does wear those red braces.

Ianto slips the clipboard under his arm and cocks his head at Owen. "This is going to be difficult. I can tell." And without looking away, he reaches to his right for the box of latex gloves, yanking from the elbow, a bendable doll that moves and breathes and talks on its own. It is anatomically correct, Ianto-doll, with a flaccid cock and balls and hair and, is that a piercing? Owen squints, but his eyes dredge through the skin and the muscle and hair and paleness back up to Ianto's face when the doll makes a sound; Ianto-doll can talk too, and move, like right now when it pulls the gloves on, wiggling its fingers.

Owen doesn't say a word, doesn't even run his palms down his thighs as he kneels on the table, sitting on his heels.

Ianto interlaces his fingers, leans forward as if to say something conspiratorial. His moue of a mouth is superb. Owen wonders if he practices, or if he was born with a bad taste on his tongue.

"Shall we begin?"

Owen doesn’t say a word. He doesn't. Ianto turns away and sets about unwrapping the supplies from their sterile plastic casings.

"I had thought about some of the other options," Ianto says crisply, as if he is delivering a lecture about Cardiff Castle. His hand movements are sharp and spare. "Other less conventional methods."

Owen shivers on the table, on his knees, heels digging into his arse. Ianto's voice disembodies as he walks behind him to adjust the pole and run the tap.

"For instance, the application of milk and molasses, I thought to be especially intriguing." The plastic scrape of a bucket on the floor sounds like a knell, and Owen rolls his neck a little, not looking for it. He knows where it is. Ianto knows where it is.

"On the other hand, we all know what an essentialist I am," Ianto's voice is calm, river-like, the Grand goddamn Canyon. "So I thought we should delve into the classics."

Owen's cock twitches for the first time, takes notice, understands that soon there will be hands, like how as a child he had known that once the veg was gone from his plate, there'd be pudding.

"As a medical professional, I am sure that you are familiar with the term 'FOS' when written in the diagnosis section of many medical forms." Owen stares at the morgue drawers in front of him. He doesn't say a word. 'That's clever, you doctors. Having one over on your patients right there in the paperwork." The tone is so sharp, so disapproving, Owen expects a snap to his backside, the whippy-flick of the flat of Ianto's palm, fingertips curved for a little scrape at the end with the roll of his wrist.

Nothing comes. Instead there is a clicky-click of a pen, and the scratch of a dull dry nib scraping on paper. As he writes, Ianto rounds him, clipboard cradled in the hook of one arm like a flat baby.

"'Harper, Owen. Diagnosis. 'Full. Of. Shit,'" Ianto intones, slowly, finishing with a punctuated stab and looking up at Owen over his pilfered reading glasses. They are too small for his head, and the blackness of the frames against his Welsh complexion make him look even more severe, angry tutor-Ianto.

Owen doesn't say a word.

"So," Ianto says again, all professionalism and one upturned brow; Owen can smell the first wafting of hot soapy water breeze past him. "I suppose there is only one thing to do about that."

Owen's head feels buckled in place so that he cannot turn away from Ianto, but he can roll his eyes to the side to look at the lightbox, blank and staring, occasionally the fluorescence flickering inside. The Hub's shitty heat kicks on just then, and Ianto sets the clipboard down in front of Owen on the far end of the table. If he had his reading glasses, he might be able to see it, but there they go, perched on Ianto's perfectly turned nose, right past him and behind. Ianto is just a voice again, like a telly left on in the flat when Owen is alone but doesn't want to be but also rather does.

"Phospho-soda," Ianto says as he manipulates the bag; Owen can hear the sloshing of the water in the bag, the squeal of the rubber tubing as it protests being manhandled by Ianto's latex covered fingers. "Phospho-soda is too painful. I am a merciful man, Owen."

Owen tilts his head, because for one second, Ianto's accent mutates, and Owen doesn't have to think too hard about what coat is slipping about his shoulders. Owen's cock pulses, half-hard, waiting, looking up at him with interest.

He wants to tell Ianto that the game is over, that the jig is up, that this cannot go any further, that Ianto is perved, but he'd asked for it, really, and so he plans to see it through. His lips swell when he bites down on them, folded in-between his teeth like the rolled edges of a book.

Ianto wheels the stand over, the bag already hanging from it, the tubing wound and clamped, the outside of the bag toweled off and ready like a happy piñata. His fingers run along the chrome of the pole, a premature inanimate handjob, too thin, too long, really, a piss-poor imitation of one. Owen wants to ask him if he wanks on the job, or if that is something he only did for Jack.

There's a final squeak of the IV pole's wheels; Ianto pauses, glancing down to check that he has secured the humble brakes, and then he reaches out with one hand and flicks the bag with a finger, his mouth curved like the lower bend of a coffee mug handle. Owen blinks then, with the sound of keratin on plastic, with the sound of the water sloshing around, over a litre, tinted with Castile soap and merry, a pale gem floating in the air.

His breath hitches, and he cannot even meet Ianto's eyes, not when he is too busy studying the bag with a critical eye, a teaching eye. Instruction is best given through demonstration, after all, and Owen has always been hands-on. When he can look away, his eyes skitter to the incandescent lamp in Jack's old office, not the incandescent sheen of Ianto's knowing look. Owen doesn’t say a word.

Ianto's hand presses on his shoulder blades, a playground shove, glove a mitten-hand and smooth, still wet. "Forward, Mister Harper," Ianto chirps. "Tut tut, foetal."

Owen can feel himself bending at the hips, lowering his chest down to touch his thighs. The bad heating pushes the cool air up against his arse, prickling the hair there. His cock and balls are squeezed in his compacted frame and he spreads his legs as he raises his arse in the air minutely; Ianto's noise of approval is soothing and also troubling.

Ianto stands on his right, and Owen lowers his head to the table, forehead pressing on the discarded paperwork, paperwork that he sees is an "orders sheet" actually. Ianto has filled it in to the letter, though he is no physician--his handwriting is too neat.

"Why don't you review your chart and ensure that things are in order, hrm?" Ianto leans forward to whisper into his ear, and the sound jumpstarts his cock, now wedged in the line of his thighs. One latexed hand claps on his neck and then paints its way down his spine before the index finger hooks around and merely digs into his hole without preamble, and Owen doesn't jolt. The finger isn't lubed, but the tube will be. "I'll just get started," Ianto punctuates his invasion with few words.

Owen lifts his head and props himself on his elbows, forearms flat on the table, which thunka-thunks unevenly as he adjusts his position. His arse must have lowered, because Ianto tugs it upwards with his Captain Hook finger.

This close, he doesn't need the glasses, so Owen tries to be obedient, always a difficult proposition when he opens his mouth. "'Patient is irritable,'" Owen says, reading Ianto's pristine lettering in the small boxes. "'Patient loses his temper and in general suffers from bad humours.'" As if this is Elizabethan, Owen thinks, and tries not to grunt when Ianto inches his finger in further. "'Leeches not recommended at this time.'"

Ianto snorts at his own joke then, and the finger slips out to be replaced with the rubber tube. Owen can feel it slip in, and the rustle and jitter of the pole when Ianto releases the clamp. He grits his teeth and waits, rewarded with a warm sensation when the water hits his insides, running open like a tap. He ducks his head and searches for the next line.

"'Due to the patient's impacted nature,'" he says, stopping when Ianto kneads one of his buttocks and then slithers his latexed hand around and under to fondle his balls. "'Due to the patient's impacted nature, a thorough cleansing is recommended.'"

"And?" Ianto prompts. The water is filling Owen's arse, moving through the colon, up into the large intestine, he can feel the former and not the latter.

"'F.O.S—'"

"Pardon? For the laypeople, please. We've not all your medical acumen."

"'Full. Of. Shit,'" he grinds out, because Ianto's hand has slid even further and grabbed his cock, squeezing, pulling the foreskin back and forth casually, as if he is milking a cow.

"Ah, I see. And the treatment?"

He wonders if the bag is close to empty, if it will take forever. The heat from the water makes the rest of him impossibly warm. Something computerised beeps in the main atrium and he stops to focus on it—rift alarm, Tosh's mini-projects stopping and starting, the whirring of a secret video camera, perhaps.

"'Soap and water enema, one point five litres.'"

Ianto lets go of Owen's cock and steps back. The water pressure increases and Owen wonders if he is squeezing the bag. "What was the actual term? Now is not the time to shy from the lingo of the trade."

Owen grunts because one point five litres, while not seeming like a great deal, actually rather _is_. He feels pleasantly full, the clamping of his hole around the tube shoots jolts of pleasure into his cock, just knowing that he is being filled completely, that the water is making its way inside him, that he's allowing it to, is poignant and not unlike any number of anticipatory things: pleasing himself; pleasing mother; pleasing Jack; pleasing Katie; getting some bird off multiple times with his fingers and tongue; getting Gwen off with his fingers and tongue; shooting some motherfucker right in the eyes with his SIG.

"High, hot and heavy."

"Ahhhhh," Ianto says, making light conversation, party conversation. "Yes. High," he reaches under Owen and presses, trapping Owen's cock between his hand and his belly. "Hot, and heavy." He jiggles the pole and the half-empty bag slaps against it like one hand clapping, a lone applause track out of sync, a dying fish flopping in the dirty Hub pool. "You're taking so very very—" he presses again with his hand, rewarding the hardness of the cock in his palm by rubbing and twisting his fist around it. "Much."

Owen rests his forehead against the table again and wishes he had a pillow. He can feel the cramping begin, but he ignores it, because sometimes these things are supposed to hurt. He does the Lamaze breaths softly through his lips: four counts in, eight counts out.

"The triple H," Ianto says, "Is, as you are well aware, not widely used anymore." Owen closes his eyes and sucks in a breath when Ianto pushes his arse further in the air and his other hand turns the tube in Owen's hole. He'd once had a vibrator up there, turning, and that's not completely unlike this sensation. Owen counts to ten in Pig Latin.

Ianto's voice cannot help but drone as he briefly clamps the bag so that Owen can concentrate on not feeling like he's going to rupture something. "Given primarily post-surgical orthopaedic patients, and to the elderly." Ianto's hands leave Owen's body, and seconds later Owen feels his ear prickle with lips running along the inner shell. "The elderly, Owen, or really, just anyone who is very, very impacted."

Owen doesn't say a word. He could, but instead he chooses to block out Ianto for a second and think about the warmth in his abdomen, low. The fullness of it is staggering. He has no idea what he will do when Ianto removes the tube. On the other hand, he won't be cleaning, so he doesn't much care. His cock aches, as Ianto's hand has left it, and he doesn't dare reach down to touch it, not because it isn't allowed, but because he knows that when he comes, everything else is going to go soon after. Just the idea is enough to make him have to rediscover twenty in Pig Latin again.

"And to revisit where we were before," Ianto says, "what does 'impacted' mean?" He releases the clamp, an unheard sound that is a deafening rush of sensation, and Owen almost groans, but one disembodied latex finger reaches on front of him to tap the clipboard.

Owen shuts his eyes. "Full of shit."

Ianto smacks his arse, and it's so abrupt that Owen almost shoots the tube. "Impossibly full of shit," Ianto says into his ear and then, _then_ he sucks in Owen's earlobe between his teeth, and it is the most invasive, the most personal and sexual thing he's done, despite that he's been fondling Owen's genitals for the past five minutes. That's just sex. This bit of lips on skin is something more.

As quickly as they tasted him, a little flower kiss of heat on his ear, Ianto's lips are gone and Owen opens his eyes to the sound of wood on metal. Ianto removes the clipboard from in front of Owen's face, and sets it aside on the far lab desk with a _cli-click_. "Let us discuss the medical benefits of alleviating your condition," he suggests, crossing his arms.

Owen tries to look back at the bag, to wonder what it is doing, how much more he has to take, but he just rests his hands on the table, and his head on his hands, like some sort of sick sex-dog or something. The openness of the situation, that he's in the centre of the room, in the centre of the table, arse up under the brightest light in the Hub, is something to wonder at.

His dick throbs a bit, something in his chest clicks and opens in that moment, and he raises his head to watch the man in front of him again, pondering, waiting, asking him to be a doctor and be a man, and be a boy and be a thing all at the same time. Owen doesn't know how to be those first two; somewhere the boy thinks this might help him accomplish that, like taking the hard path because some adage told you it's better.

"I suspect," Ianto says softly, and he couldn't sound more like a psychiatrist if he added a fake German accent, "that you retain things because you are too busy to let them out."

Owen can feel his eyes narrow. His mouth wants to open. It wants desperately to, but it doesn't. He doesn't say a word.

"When you do let go," Ianto continues, "you release just enough to alleviate pressure, but not enough to empty completely."

The light in the box hums and blinks. Ianto's hands untangle themselves and one goes under Owen's chest, lifting so that he's on all fours. The water inside him feels precarious, incredible pressure, and fullness. The longer he holds it, the more satisfaction he feels, as if keeping it in is a secret that he has and no one knows about. Ianto's other hand toys with the hose and then reaches around to press on Owen's hip bones, and then the muscles of his lower abdomen.

"Eventually, you are unable to relax the pelvic floor." Ianto leans in, his lips on Owen's ear again. "Tell me, did you suffer from encopresis?" And then he stabs in with his fingers.

Owen all but loses it, bowing up to escape the fingers, clenching his arse around the tube. The pressure in his gut mounts and he opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. Nothing that he'd think were words, instead, just a low groan. Ianto's nose snuffles his ear as he breathes out through it. There's a ghost of something that might be a smile on the shell of Owen's ear.

Tosh's alarms go off again, and Owen can almost feel them trilling in the water trapped inside him, as if she is here and adding her own little joke to the game. Thinking of Tosh that way, naked and smiling at him over the rim of her glasses, clipboard in hand, it isn't right. Her breasts would be high and round, though, yeah, he's thought about it, maybe she shaves, or no, a nest of dark pubic hair like an arrowhead pointing to some hidden place, her hidden self that she desperately wants him to firk out.

Tosh is not an escargot, but he thinks of oily butter dripping down hard thin sides as Ianto pulls the tube, and Owen knows that the bag is empty. Ianto's hand twists and pulls the tube while his other hand rubs Owen's hips and arse like brushing down a thoroughbred.

"Stay here," he whispers to Owen, his rub-down hand reaching forward without looking and running over Owen's forehead, down over his eyes, closing the lids and then over the lower face before curling under the chin to caress the throat and then slip away. Owen lowers his head and stares at the darkness behind his eyes, searching the blackness there, eyeballs moving behind the lids as he looks about, as if there is a whole universe in this dark preception from which he can plomb the secrets.

There's a hollow banging and the jostling of the table being shaken lightly and Owen knows that Ianto is preparing things for him, this part that if he had bothered, he would have realised he's dreading. He continues to search the stars behind his eyelids for an answer, the movement of his eyeballs almost painful as he rolls them as high up in the sockets as he can, so high that if he were to open his eyes now, all Ianto would see would be white.

"Up," Ianto whispers, his clinical manner gone for some soft talk, like coaching a horse, or a dog, or a very very intelligent gerbil. That Owen thinks of gerbils at his precise moment makes him snort, stamp a hand like a hoof. His skin feels tight and hot. Ianto's fingers slick along his shoulders, through the sweat that's formed there when Owen hadn't been thinking about it.

The ventilation cuts out and the lack of airflow suddenly feels like the end of a film, the credits over and the house lights going up, the screen gray and blank, ushers moving through the rows to pick up rubbish. Or after a church service, when the pews empty and the little offering envelopes litter the floor, empty, devoid of purpose.

"Sit," Ianto says, and Owen levers himself up to his knees from all fours, crawling forward a bit. The table bucks with the redistribution of weight, not unlike when he turns a corpse and the sheet metal _bloops_ with the change of balance. Then he risks a glance at the bucket behind him.

The bucket sits on the table, which sits in the middle of the room; he's been on it the whole time, so he should know. But sitting on the bucket on the table places him high in the air, like he's on display, like he's on a pedestal. The imagery of a shitting statue sends a shiver through him, and he wonders about Ianto's taste for the perverse. Not in a sexual way. But in a subversive way, to take something symbolically beautiful and shit all over it because he can, because he's hateful, because he wants the world to be as full of pain as it is of beauty.

Owen can't argue with that, making the world match the scratchy inner lining of his own being.

He shakes his head, staring at the bucket.

Ianto turns his head so that he can stare at him. His mouth opens and for just one second, Owen sees himself reflected there, sees Jack's influence on his young Welsh being, some sort of residue like that ink they use to take fingerprints at the police station--invisible on the skin, black on paper. Ianto grasps Owen's chin and pulls it in, and his mouth seals over his, like he's delivering the kiss of life, like he wants to vomit forth his will into Owen, possess, him, pour submission into him, who knows, but Owen feels himself grow limp. He almost loses it there, but Ianto pulls away and guides him back, a crabwalk, and then up on the bucket.

The world, his lab looks different from here. Smaller, if that's even possible. He's still on his knees somewhat, afraid to sit on the bucket, which Ianto has modified with possibly a child's training toilet seat. The lightbox finally dies in a blinking fluroescent bulb, and they both glance at it. In Owen's head he feels grateful that the light doesn't contribute anymore to this moment; Ianto is probably making a mental note to replace it. Owen tightens his arse muscles and sits, placing more weight on the bucket, rewarded when it doesn't skid or collapse or anything else.

Ianto surprises him then, by using a step stool. He mounts the table in front of Owen and kneels there. Even with him kneeling and Owen sitting on the bucket, Ianto is still taller. His eyes are bright and gentle behind the glasses, and there's some sort of thought then, that maybe this isn't about pain but--

"Owen," Ianto breathes, saying his name.

Owen lets go. He closes his eyes and feels the muscles loosen, the bucket safe under him, Ianto's hand on his cheek, the other on his cock, kneading, tugging the foreskin so that in the middle of all of this _going_ there's also _coming_ , and if he could manage to sick up, he'd have a trifecta. The doctor in him wonders how much fluid mass he's losing right now.

It isn't until Ianto smooths his cheek with his thumb that Owen realises that he's been crying. He can't bring himself to look at Ianto, so he searches the blackness in his lids for wisdom, for a signal that it's okay to come out, as Ianto pumps his cock with his fingers and his bowels finish emptying, and the smell would be acrid and horrible except that on some level it isn't. Ianto says nothing, when at this point the asshole thing to do would be to make more medical observations. Timing has always been teaboy's _raison d'etre_ ; it's a wonder the watch hasn't made an appearance.

But when he opens his eyes, finally, because his hands are on Ianto's shoulders and his knees are shaking from their precarious bend, the look trapped on Ianto's face says more about the things he's seen and felt in this space under the ground than Owen could have hoped or imagined: his eyes, they way they remind Owen of romance (his last great love was a blue-eyed girl); the curve of his lips and how it spells out tragedy (when the lift had gone up, Ianto's screams had broken the sound barrier first); the way that this time, his hands on Owen's body feel as sturdy and strong as the ones that had once held him in forgiveness.

"Well, now," Ianto says softly. "Catharsis," he whispers, and then he leans in and kisses Owen, his lips moist and gentle, wanting, possibly to give something. Owen will never be able to say anything right with his throat, so he surrenders with his tongue, thanks with his teeth, prays with his lips against Ianto's mouth.

The heat comes back on and blows across them both, drying sweat and tears and spit. The bucket seat is leaving an impression on his arsecheeks and he can feel it. His come is drying on his dick, now soft, and Ianto is still rubbing his cheek on Owen's face, some sort of animal greeting or maybe just a signal to them both that they are what they are.

When Ianto pulls away, his smile is wry. "Huh. Your eyes really are brown," he states, matter of fact, smile on his lips a sideways question.

It takes Owen three tries to say something, opening his mouth and closing it. Hesitation, from the dryness of his oesophagus, from fear, from uncertainty of everything, or just from exhaustion. Whatever he says, he thinks, better be good, though.

"Fuck you, Jones," he finally says.

Ianto strokes his forehead with his bare hand. "Maybe later."

END


End file.
